


The Road We Never Wanted

by FactorialRabbits



Series: The Paths We Tread [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Celegorm is having a terrible time, Child Death, Child Injury, Curufin is having genuinely the worst week of his existance and can't stop crying, Dagor Bragollach, Everyone is still trying their hardest and everyone is still failing, Huan (mentioned), OC minor elves, as close to canon compliant I could manage, curufin cannot stand to see children hurt, curufin is his father's son, curufin nearly makes celebrimbor cry but celegorm comes to the rescue, death of many non-canon characters whose deaths are significant to the plot, description of injury, doesn't even have a happy 'we're safe now' at the end, doesn't have any sort of 'we're safe for now' at the end, non-graphic animal death, very brief celebrimbor and celegorm bonding experience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 20:46:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15127505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FactorialRabbits/pseuds/FactorialRabbits
Summary: There's no dragon in their lands, but the commanders of Angband are playing the Lords of Aglon like a fiddle. Celegorm would rather fight a dragon than this. When it is distinctly not a dragon, well, that's when everything goes to hell.Alternatively: Celegorm tries to lead their people to safety as the trauma of Dagor Bragollach wears upon Curufin.





	The Road We Never Wanted

**Author's Note:**

> This was an attempt by me to work out a situation in which Celegorm and Curufin end up in Nargothrond by entirely well-intentioned means, and to explain just how they fell from paticularly brutal anti-heroes to completely irredeemable villians.
> 
> I want to ramble a lot but do not have the energy, having spent the last 4 days editting this monster of a oneshot. I have still given up before being entirely satisfied, so please forgive mistakes.

Celegorm stood, peering over the battlements at the Pass of Aglon. Not long ago, he and his brother had seen evidence of battle to the North-East; it seemed the very ground was burning, ash and smoke from burning crops blown on the wind into the Pass.

With not enough space within their own walls for all their people should this be a true attack, the Lords of Aglon had decided to evacuate their civilians and call upon their army. Curufin was seeing to the evacuations - his wife and young son would travel in the convoy. 

Whilst he did so Celegorm was keeping a careful watch, making sure they would never be surprised. Alongside him, various warriors from both commands hurried around. Some would ask Celegorm for his advice or opinion, but for the most part he stood silent - waiting for a change. Whether the change would be the enemy or returning scouts he did not know.

Shivering slightly in the early morning chill, he squinted out into the pass. Through the fog, he could see something moving. As he watched, it soon became apparent that a solitary something was limping towards them - along the road, but keeping to the shadows. Probably not an orc, alone and injured, but possibly something worse

"Who goes there!" a guard - Celegorm was not sure which - called out.

"Narchon Lendaerion!" the limping figure called back, stepping out into the light. 

The figure was cloaked, but recognisably elven and bearing the insignia of Celegorm's elite scouts. Hurriedly, the gate was lifted slightly, and he slipped inside. A runner was already going for a healer, as Celegorm leapt down to the ground.

"Report," Celegorm snapped his fingers to draw Narchon's attention to him.

The report was shaky, and it took the Lord some work to pick out the relevant parts - the force was larger than any enemy force fielded for some time, the scouting group had run into an orcish unit with a cave troll, and only the one had made it out alive. Indeed, they'd thrown themselves into danger to guarantee word got home. Celegorm's heart clenched at the news; of all the men, his scouts were his favoured ones. His friends and his hunting companions. And now a number of his best - his closest - were dead.

He flickered attention back to the report; there would be time to grieve later. Enemy movements implied a skilled commander, and some had split Eastwards. Following Glaurung. The flinch at the idea of the beast, headed where could only be Maglor's lands, was suppressed from his face. The Dorthonion had fallen to the army and its creatures, and now they were spewing into the area. What had happened to the elves there was still unknown.

"You have performed admirably, my friend, stay with the healers as long as you need. You," Celegorm pointed at one of the assembled, curious crowd. "Go find Lord Curufin, and inform him of these happenings."

He gave a few other commands, but otherwise left the group to organise themselves. The soldiers here had trained together their entire adult lives and knew how to prepare for a fight; Celegorm's own skills were not in commanding the multitude, and he trusted the captains implicately.

He peered back out over the ramparts, watching for the inevitable orcs. Behind him, the army formed themselves into proper lines; let the enemy ram themselves against the fortifications for as long as they held, and only then move in the soldiers. That was what the plan in case of attack had always been. 

Unlike Himring, it was not really a fortress built here; there were heavy fortifications of the narrow pass, and weaker ones through the mountain, but people actually lived well behind the walls and gates, mostly on small farms. A small keep was found at the eastern end of the wall, home of the barracks. The Walls were designed to hold the Pass indefinitely, but if it fell there would not be time to inform and gather the farmers, and still be able to reach the pass to Himring.

Celegorm shifted his weight; the enemy would likely be here soon. And then he would have something to actually do. Beside him, the napping Huan grunted himself awake. His ears were scratched, and the dog joined his master in gazing out over the pass.

Soon enough, Curufin appeared. Robes swished as they flowed from beneath his breastplate, and Angrist strapped in its place on his side. Celegorm nodded to him, before resuming the watch. One hand rested ready with his bow, the other stroking Huan lightly.

"The civilians have left. Those that wanted to; we didn't bother arguing with people. Any news other than the scout?" Curufin's arms were crossed, and he leant against the wall. Grey eyes flickered over the area.

Celegorm shook his head, scowling, "Just waiting for something to begin."

"I'll be checking on the supply lines if you need me."

Curufin strode back down the stairs. At the corners of his attention, Celegorm could hear him yelling orders at their men. Making sure nobody could see him from this angle, he allowed himself a small smile; this would be fine. They'd held for centuries, afterall. Curufin was just worrying, more so now he had a young family to care for. Maeadis, Curufin's wife, was a blessing on their household; their son, Celebrimbor, a blessing on all Arda. Curufin severely doubted Feanor would have approved of Curufin taking an Avari wife, but the two were well matched in intellect and shared a passion for the forge. They had met when she came begging for help, having become separated from her kinsmen, and stayed when she found them for she found her heart. The fact she refused to ever go to Valinor was irrelevant; the exiles were not permitted to return.

Day turned to night, and Celegorm held his vigil. The other guards changed as their rota commanded. 

An hour or so before dawn, smoke began to become apparent from the East. Still, Celegorm kept his watch. Huan was getting restless and beginning to prowl the battlements, whilst the men on the ground had taken to playing cards. Curufin had disappeared away to who knew where. Someone bought him a bowl of breakfast, which he ate where he stood. 

An hour and a half later, or thereabouts, a great wailing went up from beyond the fog. There was a moment's confusion, before Celegorm realised what was happening; the scout had said orcs. But that was the sound of thralls. Across the fortifications faces paled as the soldiers quickly came to the same conclusion. Still, they did not break rank. Curufin looked up, and shared a momentary look with his brother.

"Remember that death is a kindness to those in the power of Morgoth. You will be freeing them from torment - think of it not as killing defenceless elves, but as saving them from fates worth than death," Curufin's voice was cold as it echoed to the men, but his eyes flickered with sorrow.

Celegorm placed arrow to bow, and prepared to fire.

When the mass appeared, it was composed almost entirely of thralls. A few orcs, whipping and ordering, kept them pointing in the right direction. The thralls did not even really attack - they threw themselves against the fortifications, wailing and screaming and begging for safety or death. The orcs seemed quite happy to wait; they were chosen for this task specifically.

After about 20 minutes, Celegorm realised they couldn't shoot these thralls; the orcs were still coming - their campfires just visible - and there were only so many arrows. But to go down and fight them with sword would leave the elves vulnerable. Anything that could be used to kill them from the walls, however, would run out.

"Stand down! Feiredir, keep watch!" Celegorm yelled across the wall.

The warriors followed him back to ground level.

"What?" Curufin stormed over.

"The orcs are still coming," Celegorm then gestured to his nearly empty quiver.

Curufin's face turned to the gate as he swore. After a moment, he managed to compose himself and gestured to one of the soldiers, "boy, have your captain set the watch rota. We'll just have to wait for the orcs to get bored and start their attack. They're not known for their patience; once the orcs are gone, we can give the thralls rest. For now you're just going to have to suck it up and ignore them."

The soldiers looked hesitantly in the direction of the wailing, but mostly followed their Lord's orders. A few sobbed along to the wails, and a handful more arrows were lost, but the spirit of them was kept as well as could be. Curufin and Celegorm entered one of the guardhouses. Someone bought them a pot of tea, and they sat in silence - listening to the screams of the tortured. Around them, their men busied themselves and twitched, nervously performing maintenance and preparations. In their hands, their tea-cups shuddered and small droplets fell onto the table.

* * *

As it was, they did not need to wait nearly as long as Curufin predicted. After only a few hours the sound of charging orcs confronted them. The wails continued, combined with the war cries and thundering feet of the orcs. Hearing the battle restart and the screams of the guard, Celegorm took back up his bow and leapt up the stairs. Curufin, for his part, took control of those fighting from the ground. Huan positioned himself by the gate, growling at the orcs. A few shuddered when he did so.

Archers stood alongside swordsmen on the walls, prepared to cut down those who tried to scale the walls. Those on the ground prepared for an attempt to breach the gate; the orcs had pushed aside the thralls, and their claws ripped into and through the wood. Although the metal held, the wood was soon fractured away; the enemy began to fire through the gaps, and the soldiers of Aglon returned the favour. Both side yelled and called over the other, horns blaring amid the chaos. 

Celegorm did not really pay attention to them; as long as his arrows lasted he continued to pick off targets, then would grab some more from a crate of such that had been left for the purpose of resupplying the wall archers. Dodge the return fire, keep half an eye on the men close to him, give an occasional order if people were hesitating. For now at least, the enemy was not using siege equipment.

Eventually Curufin appeared, standing next to his brother and peering over the battlement. Celegorm kept half an eye on him as he processed possibilities.

"They'll bring the ladders out soon," Curufin spoke. "I'll send someone with liquid fire."

He disappeared without waiting for a reply, and a few minutes later a group of elves dragged a caldron of oil up to the battlements. All around, other elves were doing similar. Once each was positioned, a few were lit and poured over the edge and onto the enemies below. The rest remained, waiting for them to become necessary. The screams were harrowing, seeming to tear into the soul. Celegorm grabbed some arrows, and continued to pick off targets.

It was maybe half an hour before they appeared, aiding the corrupted in their attempts to scale and breach the wall. With no regard for themselves - possibly even bordering on suicidal desperation - the enemy's people clambered upwards. Ladder after ladder was cut away, and creature after creature pushed to its death, but the barrage was endless. But sometimes was enough to whittle their numbers back. Meanwhile, as each orc was cut back another took its place. When the numbers became too dense, more of the cauldrons were used.

In the back of his mind, Celegorm wondered why he had yet to see any balrogs; was it even a good thing if none came here? This was no meer skirmish, but a calculated and massive attempt to break into Himlund. If the balrogs were not here, they would be fighting somewhere else. 

Dread settled over him as he realised why they had seen none of the enemy's greater beasts - something Curufin no doubt worked out long ago. That Celegorm was much more skilled against single, large targets than masses of small ones was commonly known. That Maglor's skills in routing hordes were a secret to outside of the family, but against an enemy who had been testing them all for years... He probably knew; knew Maglor excelled in mass combat, and Celegorm in single, and that they were holding the two least defensible parts of the line. The enemy was exploiting their strengths and weaknesses. Celegorm cursed, and continued his crusade against the seemingly endless horde. He was a hunter, a slayer of beasts and animals of the wilds, skilled with all his weapons. He shot another orc, attempting to reign in his emotions. He had to think, calm himself, keep face so his men did not flee in terror. Curufin was far, far better at that than him.

Time passed with ladder after ladder trying to reach them. They seemed far less effective than Celegorm might have thought, and fewer of them. By now they should have broken over the wall. But they hadn't - what was the enemy playing at? They were obviously well trained and commanded. 

He was about to call down - to find out if anyone else found it strange - when a series of screams from behind he drew attention. Turning, he saw orcs swarming on the south side of the wall. Confusion now reigned on the battlefield - how had they been flanked? What had happened? The gate was still together, and no ladder had crossed the wall. Surely not an infiltrator - the portcullis was still shut. A tunnel? One could never have been constructed this quickly, and surely they would have noticed it being built? But Celegorm could think of no other reason - maybe a cave system they hadn't known about. The land had been extensively surveyed, checked by all of the seven sons in turn, but it was always possible to miss something. 

A darker part of his mind suggested that maybe the enemy had always known of the tunnel, and had hidden it from their view. Illusion it away, lull them into security, use it when they had finally decided to break the siege. That the long peace had never been safe, that they had been being lulled and prepared for slaughter these two hundred years.

Despite everything, what he said was, "Valar-cursed orcs, learning distraction tactics at the very worst time. Men! I want every third archer to remain firing over, and the rest down into the courtyard!"

Initial orders given, he turned to look at the new set of enemy, calculating a longer term strategy. Curufin was doing an excellent job splitting the force to cover both the archers through the gate and the new arrivals, whilst Huan was aggressively chewing on an orcish limb. Celegorm's eyes narrowed; fighting from both sides was dangerous at the best of times, and this was not one of those. Carefully, he made his way down from the wall and took command of those protecting the gate; his archers were good, could look after themselves. Curufin nodded his thanks. Still, he couldn't help but feel they were still missing something. Curufin probably had an idea - he was good at those. Really good. But he was too far away to ask.

Twenty minutes later the solution struck him; these orcs were still moving like they had a commander. But what? A dragon? A balrog? Multiple of the above? He tried to think.

His thoughts were cut short as a small group of werewolves lept from the tunnels. Celegorm felt himself groan; was this really necessary? A wall of thralls, a mass of orcs, and now werewolves? Could the enemy stop fucking around and just burn them all to cinders already? Or were all his balrogs and all his dragons too busy for that?

A memory of the smoke he had seen far to the north and east crossed his mind with the thought, and he took a deep breath - no, it was not better to burn. Just ask those who were burning already. Deep breaths, control your temper, make sure you can still hold your bow steady. His men stood with him. There would be casualties - already were - but they would succeed.

He nearly did not see his brother's distraction; Curufin had turned his back to the pack of werewolves, ordering a group of terrified soldiers into acting as runners. The creatures were prowling around, not yet quite engaging in battle, as though looking for something...

Celegorm squinted at them, left someone else in command, attempted to blend into the crowd. There were few things they could be hunting, and primary of those were the Lords. Approaching his brother, trying to warn him of the danger, he skulked on all fours with knife in hand. Low profile, away from the sight of the werewolves.

At one moment, he made brief eye contact with one of them, who then grinned and threw itself forward. Celegorm moved to defend himself, but the angle of travel... Recalculating in an instant, he threw himself between Curufin and the creature, raising his arm and realising a moment too late he wasn't carrying his shield, that it was still over his shoulder. There was no time to pull it back - that had been lost to misdirection - he bit his lip and braced as the werewolf made contact with him.

The teeth bit down, ripping into his flesh, then dragged down his arm. Celegorm breathed deep, trying to ride out the pain. Afterall, Curufin was screaming enough for them both. He twisted, narrowly dodging an arrow, and thrust his knife deep into the enemy's flesh. With hazy distress, he registered his left arm as unresponsive, and Curufin staring in horror.

The creature snarled, choking on its own blood, and threw himself at him. They ended up on the floor, Celegorm's right arm the only thing stopping it from clawing out his throat. Twisting, turning, seeking an advantage, losing his sword and his bow as they fell to the floor. Neither had the upper hand yet, but Celegorm was weakening, could feel his strength slipping. When he was sure his shoulder could hold out no longer, he admitted defeat- screamed for help.

Curufin was by his side in an instant, burrowing his wicked knife into the eye of the beast. A moment later it fell still; he reclaimed his knife, and took to fighting off those enemies that had gathered around. It took two attempts for Celegorm to heave the corpse off himself. The sharp twisting caused his head to spin; dark spots he blinked away. Still, he picked up his sword, tied his shield to his injured arm and did his best to over Curufin's back. It was a struggle, but not the first time he'd fought injured. Not even the first time he'd fought whilst slowly bleeding out. But, oh Valar, the pain. Curufin snuck him concerned glances at every opportunity, taking command of all their men.

When a moment's pause was found, Curufin grabbed him by his uninjured elbow. He was dragged into a sheltered spot between two buildings, then down into a crouching position. In the light of the fires of battle, Curufin turned his sharp eyes to thoroughly examining Celegorm's injuries.

"You need to find a healer; it could be poisoned. And it's bleeding badly. I think one of your ribs might be cracked? Not to mention all the smaller scratches."

"Doesn't feel like poison," Celegorm muttered back. 

"It could be new..." Curufin pulled himself up a little. "Don't squirm, see a healer as soon as you can."

Without waiting for a reply, he unclasped his belt and looped it around the upper part of his arm. Above the bite marks. Without waiting, he pulled it tight and used his knife to cut a hole for the buckle. Having finished his improvised tourniquet, he began to pour water over the injury, cleaning it as best he could. That done, he quickly wrapped the limb. Celegorm kept watch, although their soldiers appeared to be keeping the orcs away. The rest of the water was then dumped over his head, startling him awake and rinsing his scratched.

"Thanks," Celegorm nodded to his brother, shivering.

"Can you hold yourself upright?" Curufin wasn't watching him.

"I can try."

Curufin looked at him with a thin smile, "it's your off arm. Get back to the fight; we don't have the numbers we need for this."

"Stay close?"

Eyes were rolled, and Curufin dragged himself upright. Strapping Angrist back to his leg, he grabbed a sword from a downed elf. He experimented with it for a moment, before discarding it in favour of a different one. This happened a few times, before he found one balanced to his satisfaction. Celegorm used the break to take a quick drink. Curufin looked at him for a moment, then offered him help to get up.

Seeing his lords , a messenger ran over with a report from elsewhere on the field. The brothers listened, before sending back a message; things were going poorly everywhere. Curufin positioned himself to cover Celegorm's more injured side, and they pressed back into the fray.

The two sons of Feanor stayed close to one another, just as promised. Celegorm was restricted to his sword, whilst Curufin had opted to use only his knife once more. As they struck their desperate way through the enemy, calling for their men to converge on a single point, Celegorm wondered if this force was being lead by a balrog - certainly it had some mastermind, still did, but the werewolves had been targeted and dispatched of already. More werewolves, maybe?

They fought on through the orcs, making routes to supply caches and horses. At least there were no dragons at current - those things were awful. In the end they chose to gather at the stables. A few of the healers were they already, along with a few squads of soldiers. Upon seeing one of their Lords covered in blood, they ran over and dragged him to a stool. Within moments he was being stripped, herbs pushed over his injuries and quick stitches being made. He was relieved to see Narchon with them, returning the concerned look he received with an exhausted one. Curufin was ordering people around, having messengers gather anyone they could find to their location. Then the screams got louder and Curufin let out a single, hysterical sob. Celegorm leant to squint around the stable door.

Oh, and  _ there _ was their balrog.

It crashed through the damaged border wall, stone crumbling around it. It raised its whip and snapped it, felling both orc and elf. Celegorm became aware of Curufin slipping into the makeshift hospital, face pale. And then they heard the howls of another large pack of werewolves.

Curufin ran a filthy hand though his bloodstained hair, "We can't take it; we don't have the men."

"We have to. If we try to retreat, we will be chased. If we don't, they will continue for other prey." At the very least, Celegorm assumed it would behaved like any other creature that hunted for sport. He couldn't say he'd been paying too much attention the last time he'd met one. A shiver went up his spine at the memory.

"We could leave a detachment to fight, retreat and regroup. No, I don't like it, but if we can delay them long enough to reach Himring and get a report to the other cities..." Trailing off, Curufin scowled and paced as he continued to think, continuing rake fingers into his hair. Ignoring the screams of elf and orc as the balrog was fought. "We can't hold it. I have no doubt even more fell creatures will be sent soon, and we're too exhausted to fight them. That was their plan. Wear us out, then send in the heavies. We knew that. But we couldn't exactly not fight the orcs." He stopped pacing, turning to face the floor. "Gather some men. Leave those too injured to ride, and at least half of those still able to fight unhindered. Select men equal to two thirds of the remaining horses; prioritise those with mounted combat experience."

Curufin continued to talk through the priority list for a few moments longer, before leaving to prepare the horses for the retreat. Celegorm, Huan at his heels, made his way outside. The healers ordered him to come back, but he ignored them. Ignoring those soldiers close to the balrog entirely, he pulled some squads from the fight. To others he explained the plan; none were happy to be told they were holding the line to their inevitable deaths, but then nobody liked the idea of everyone dying either. He tried not to prioritise his friends for getting out, but not doing so was so, so very hard.

Each time he found a group to come with them, he sent them to Curufin to be assigned a horse. When Celegorm finally returned, reigns were thrust into his hands and Curufin gave the order to move out.

They rode east. Celegorm took the front, his injuries preventing use of either spear or bow, whilst Curufin rode around the group, slaying chasing orcs and giving commands to those defending the small group. Behind them, they could still hear the screams of those men that had left behind - those sacrificing themselves so some could escape.

* * *

Once in the pass properly, the pace of the retreating party slowed. There were at most a few hundred men, probably fewer, and all injured to a greater or lesser extent. The handful of healers rode up and down the group, performing triage and emergency aid even as they rode. Each horse picked its careful way through the mountain, attempting to avoid the attentions of the orcs wandering around. They followed the tracks of the caravan of evacuating civilians, horses too tired to pick through undergrowth. Even with the hours spent fighting and the injured here they expected to catch up - wagons were invariably slow.

Still, they were expecting it to take longer before they saw the wagons at the edge of their vision. Many of the soldiers sounded relieved. thinking them to have made better time than they did, but Celegorm grabbed Curufin's wrist.

"This is wrong."

Curufin looked around, eyes narrowed. He pulled a few men with him to serve as a guard, and then the two Lords pressed forward. Faster than their own company.

When the smell of blood and fire hit them, but they could hear no combat or screaming, one of the guard was sent to bring the others forward. As Celegorm arranged this, Curufin pushed his horse to race on ahead. 

"Curufin!" Celegorm called, but said no more as he pushed his own horse to match. The men could be left to organise themselves.

The sight which confronted them worse than Celegorm had expected. The wagons were overturned, the young and sick who had ridden in them slaughtered by the sides. There were trails of scrambling and blood where people had been dragged off as prisoners, and old blood pooled under the corpses. The guards sent with the caravan lay slaughtered all around, their blood more dried than the civilians. Most of the corpses were hours old, but some few were fresher - long, drawn out deaths. The mules assigned to pull the wagons had been eaten messily. Celegorm's face was grim as he surveyed the area. He was not sure if it was for the best or not that he could see no sign of the colours of his nephew and law-sister.

Then he heard something, and his eyes, sharper than any other elf, spotted one of the corpses shift. Weapon drawn, he approached. An elleth lay in a pool of her own blood, dressed as an apprentice of the weaver's guild. She gasped as he put a hand on her shoulder, looking at him with fevered eyes.

"Balrog, Lord... I..." her voice was barely a whisper.

"I see," Celegorm placed a finger on her lips, and gestured for a healer with his other hand. "We will guard you now."

The apprentice kept eye contact with him, but her breaths too desperate to manage speech. He attempted to comfort her until a healer appeared, riding up at speed.. He lost not a moment in getting to work, but Celegorm recognised the grim set of his face. Still, he sat back and began to look around for clues as the other worked. Certainly a balrog's whip would explain the specific arrangement of scorch marks...

“You, set a watch. The rest of you, look for more survivors. Captain Thalil? Find a few men. You’re to see that the bodies are dealt with. If there's not enough time, follow us after.” Curufin’s voice was quiet, but pulled Celegorm’s attention back to the main group. He returned to his brother's side, resting the elbow of his sword arm on the other's shoulder. Curufin brushed him off with a snap.

The soldiers saluted with less hesitance than their eyes showed. The more able of the unit formed a watchful perimeter, as the healers set up a makeshift hospital in the back of a wagon. Those left and able to do so went searching for survivors. Curufin and Celegorm stuck close by each other, searching for the former's wife and son. Neither mentioned how unhopeful they were; Maeadis would have run to help protect the convoy, and elflings are so fragile compared to their parents. Still, they picked their way among the corpses in an awkward silence. Closure would at least be something. Better than the lingering suspicion their family had been taken, were being tortured in the north.

Some of the soldiers found the occasional living elf - delirious or unconscious or so injured it was best just to put them out of their misery. The handful of medics were struggling to keep up to numbers, but did not turn any away from their field hospital.

After about half an hour, a shout went up. The brothers made as one towards it, drawing and gripping weapons. In their haste, they nearly collided with an elleth running towards them, “My Lords - Lady Maeadis…” she struggled for breath.

Brushing her aside, Curufin picked up his pace and marched  from whence she came. Celegorm grunted his thanks to the terrified elleth, before jogging after his younger brother.

His heart sank as he saw the postures and silence of the gathered elves. Curufin was pushing through them, yelling as they would tell him nothing. Nobody tried to stop Celegorm following him, and the gathered elves backed off. And there, in front of them, was Curufin's wife. There was no seeing in her wide-open eyes. A crude spear pushed through her stomach and up through her ribs gave her the illusion of sitting. Curufin screamed, dropping his sword as he collapsed to his knees, gently taking her blood-soaked hands in his own. “Mae… Mae, oh Valar, Maeadis…”

His muttering continued for a while, the elves bar his brother slowly breaking away for his privacy. Celegorm knelt down beside his silent brother.

“Kurvo,” gentleness did not come to Celegorm even now, his face and words sour even as he tried. “The orcs may return. We need to find Telpe.”

Receiving no reply, Celegorm walked away. He meandered for a short while, pointing out elvish corpses to his men. The plan appeared to be to separate the elvish corpses to place in a mass grave, then just torch the area. If some of the elvish corpses were caught and burnt with the orcs then, well, graves were more for the living than the dead. It wasn't as though the bodies were required for anything.

In time, he found himself at the healer's wagon. Those few working there were harried; a handful of injured but functional elves were running errands and performing the more basic duties. Maybe he should get someone to check over his arm, make sure the flesh was healing properly?

"My Lord," he bowed. "Can I get you anything? Anyone?"

Celegorm was about to ask for one of the healers to come over, when he heard an injured child screaming as their flesh was reattached. He reanalysed; he could survive his current injury without more attention and a bit of luck. Many of his men would not, let alone the civilians. He didn't make a point of getting to know his men like some of his brothers - indeed he would rather keep his distance than deal with their concerns - but he wasn't impervious to their suffering. And leaving some to die that others would live had hurt; at this point, demanding a healer would kill people and that would invalidate the sacrificed he had forced his people to make.

"If you could get me some bandages and send someone when they are free, I would like someone to check my injuries. Werewolves are tricky things; I'll wait where I will be noticed if it worsens," he paused a moment. "An apprentice or trainee will suffice; if it's sufficiently serious they can get someone, but it has been seen to earlier."

The runner seemed surprised, but bowed and passed on the message. A moment later, he was off attempting to acquire clean water. That was likely to cause problems on any trip they made...

His thoughts were interrupted by a runner marching over and dropping a young girl in his lap. He immediately recognised her as Tobriel, one of Celebrimbor's playmates. He stared at the runner.

"They've done what they can for her, now it's a waiting game. They say if you're here make yourself useful and watch her. With all respect of course."

"Well, Tobriel, what shall we do, then?" he asked the girl.

She looked at him with a shaken face, then pointed at Huan, who was napping under a wagon. With a sigh Celegorm whistled him over, and let the girl play with the dog. Watching how she moved, her injuries were largely internal. And for all she was currently conscious enough to stroke a dog, probably going to be fatal if they couldn't keep her still. Which on horses and wagons... Well, may as well let her have some joy whilst on enough painkillers to be able to. Those would run out soon enough.

He was still idly watching her when he heard something of an uproar. Tired of sitting, he called on someone else to watch Tobriel, promised she could continue stroking Huan and made his way towards the noise. His eyes narrowed to see all three senior figures bent over a single elf, two apprentices and a runner by their side. Why on earth was everyone-? A handful of the guards stood just off to one side, looking shaken. One spotted him, and hesitantly approached.

"Lord Celegorm," he bowed.

Celegorm stood, arms crossed and scowling, "what?"

"We..." the soldier glanced at the others for a moment. "We found Lord Celebrimbor."

"Is he...?" Celegorm dared not hope.

A shake of the head, and a gesture at the crowd of healers. Now that Celegorm hadn't yelled at him, he seemed to gather a little more confidence. "He was a little way beyond the convoy. We think the Orcs may have tried to take him captive; he was tied up and unconscious. Not sure why he was dropped. Maybe they got spooked? Or weren't looking?"

Celegorm thought it more likely that they had realised Celebrimbor was too young to be his father and so abandoned him, but did not express it. Instead he counted the meagre blessings he had been given. From the corner of his eyes he saw two of the senior healers leave to tend to the other patients, followed by the apprentices. That was either excellent or terrible news. 

Almost hesitantly, he approached.

Celebrimbor lay on one of the soldier's cloaks. To one side the tattered remains of his clothing had been discarded, and beside him small lengths of bloodstained rope. The healer's hands moved quickly, binding and cleaning injuries. The runner knelt on the other side, maneuvering him as the healer needed. Both looked up when their Lord approached, but neither saluted. The runner stared whilst the healer returned to work.

"How is he?" Celegorm's voice was quiet, if facially sour.

"None of the injuries are life threatening themselves, but the infection that's sure to set in may well be," the healer continued to work. "Been laying in orc blood for Manwe only knows how long; its gotten into the bloodstream. Responsive to touch, but not voice. No fever as of yet. His breathing and heartbeat are stable; I am trying to minimise potential infection. Head injury, not serious alone but complicating.  Unlikely to die soon, but may do so if the infection is severe. Where are his parents?"

"I'll go find my brother."

The healer nods; evidently nobody else wanted to have this conversation with Curufin. Celegorm didn't really either. As he left he slipped his signet ring into Celebrimbor's hand, feeling slightly better for leaving his child nephew with something familiar; he had always been fascinated by rings. On a reflex, Celebrimbor's hand grabbed tight onto it. Celegorm's smile was small as he stood and returned to Curufin.

He had not moved from where Celegorm had left him, though he had fallen silent. Celegorm stood behind him for a few moments, before clearing his throat.

"Piss off," Curufin's voice lacked any bite.

"Brother, they've found Celebrimbor-"

Curufin turned to look at him, face aghast and tears filling his eyes again.

"He's alive!" Celegorm quickly added. "He's injured, but alive."

He waited for Curufin to calm himself before continuing.

"The healers are worried about infection; he was found covered in orc blood. When I left he was unconscious but responded to contact," he didn't mention the ropes. He needed his brother to come with him, not to fly off into a murderous rampage.

After a few months of frowning, Curufin stalked silently off. Celegorm followed a few places behind, constantly being accosted by men wanting orders.

By the time they returned, Celebrimbor was sitting against a crate and shivering. Tobriel was napping nearby, and Huan resting over their feet. One of the apprentice healers was sat with them, and a cloak had been thrown over his shoulders; his injuries were bound, but for the bruising on his face. Celebrimbor seemed unable to comprehend any of this. Celegorm could see the senior healer from before glance over as they approached, tending to other patients whilst still observing the rest. He wondered if he should have asked her name; it was probably irrelevant. Rather than going to find out and interrupt her work, he stood watch as his brother slowly knelt beside his nephew. The apprentice healer backed off slightly.

"Telpe?" Curufin rested his hand on the crate, next to Celebrimbor's knee. "Atar's here now."

Celebrimbor stared, almost confused, at his father's hand. Hesitantly, he reached over and grasped it tight. His eyes were wide and frightened as they traced up the arm to look at Curufin. After a few seconds, he shuffled closer and leant his head against his chest. Gently, Curufin wrapped his free arm around his son, peppering kisses to every free bit of skin. Celebrimbor didn't speak, but did seem to relax. The hand that had been offered remained clasped in Celebrimbor's, tucked onto his chest.

Leaving them to their reunion, the apprentice hesitantly approached Celegorm, "my Lord." an unsteady bow. "You needed someone to see to your injury?"

He grunted but offered him his arm in reply. It'd be a little while before the group would be able to move on, regardless.

* * *

Eventually, most of the corpses were in place. Only Lady Maeadis’ remained, untangled from the spear, washed and dressed in a clean shift. Celegorm had ordered it done, but left it to the few women among their number. It was not them who came to fetch the Lords, however, instead speaking in hushed tones to their captain before slipping just out of view. He nodded to them, then approached.

“My Lords… Her Ladyship has been prepared, if you wish to see her,” Thalil shrugged off the glare Curufin sent his way.

Celegorm nodded and approached, offering his good hand to help Curufin stand. He did not take it, but the movement woke Celebrimbor. He was startled for a moment, then began to sob. Curufin stroked his head, offering empty comfort. A blonde elf approached cautiously, “my Lord, are we to continue on to Himring?” Côldaer, the youngest of Curufin's captains, was struggling to hide the terror from his voice with an almost smile. Curufin appeared not to notice him, continuing to stride towards the location of his wife's corpse.

But still Celegorm gave the words a moment’s thought, before shaking his head; the caravan had been escorted by more men than they had now, and they had been uninjured. The chances of more orcs waiting to make another ambush was too high. “We head south, to Nargothrond. They must be informed of the breech.” No doubt messengers faster had already left, but neither elf mentioned it.

“What of your other brothers? Don’t they need assistance?”

“They will understand.”

“But, my Lord-”

“Fine,” Celegorm snapped, turning to the captain and hand twitching by his sword. “Take 5 men. Go onto Himring, report to my brother what has happened. Tell him Lady Maeadis is dead, that I am injured and tell him we are taking Celebrimbor to safety. That our men cannot hope to pass into the ash-cloud with their injuries and survive. No, better, I'll write a note for you to give Maedhros.”

Face turning pale, the elf saluted and awaited the note. Celegorm tore the corner off the map he carried, and scribbled a few words on the back with a stub of charcoal. The soldier took it, assembled a team and set off towards Himring.

Once they were out of sight, Celegorm stalked towards his brother and nephew. Maeadis was laid out, sapphires woven into her blood-stained hair, on a plinth. Celebrimbor was sat on one corner of the plinth, rearranging the jewels laid around her. Curufin was stood at her feet, silent tears dripping down his face. Beside him, an elleth with a medical roll was seeing to the lesser injuries Curufin himself had sustained and promptly forgotten about. She wasn't a healer, but then most of those doing healing right now were not.

“Any reason we’re still here?” Celebrimbor asked to the elleth.

“It would help the injured to rest, but getting caught would lead to more deaths than would die from the journeying.”

“We are leaving, then. Get someone to gather up what supplies they can find; we'll be taking the wagons still functional.” The words were addressed more to Curufin than to the elleth, but she still packed up her bag and delivered the message to the few remaining captains. The group of soldiers assigned to stay behind and deal with the dead began moving in, carrying rocks with which to form rudimentary cairns.

Sighing, Celegorm approached his brother and nephew. When his presence gave no response, he cleared his throat. Two pairs of tear-stained eyes turned and blinked owlishly at him, but did not object to being lead away.

* * *

Remounted and desperate, the group travelled south. It took a few further hours for Curufin to break from his stupor. When he did so, he ordered Celebrimbor to ride with him, and reorganized the men they travelled with into a more defensive formation. Celegorm he ordered to the back, watching for stragglers and keeping the group together. They headed for the River Aros, intending to follow it around the Girdle of Doriath before heading west to Nargothrond.

Some time into the second day, Celegorm was too exhausted to work out exactly the time, one of the lighter elves came thundering to his side. They were passing down a narrow ravine, and Celegorm could not see beyond the twists to the front of the convoy. Still, he heard no screams. She saluted him, as best she could with thick bandages over her hands and chest.

"My Lord!"

"Speak," Celegorm frowned, preparing to move quickly.

"Lord Curufin requests your presence. He does not think the situation dangerous, but wishes for your expertise."

"Inform my brother I will be with him shortly."

She rode back to her position. Celegorm assigned the closest captain to his position, then followed.

The first thing he noted, even before the fact that the convoy was halted, was that Celebrimbor was sat on the horse of one of Curufin's men, in the middle of the convoy, not his father's; even if this wasn't urgent, Curufin evidently thought there was an increase in threat.

Curufin himself had dismounted, and was examining something on the floor. The horses were taking delight in the brief break, especially as there was water nearby. Celegorm swung down from his horse, trusting her to stay close enough to hear if he called. She did not disappoint.

"Celegorm," Curufin did not look up. "What do you make of this?"

Celegorm dismounted, and shooed his horse to the stream. He stepped up beside his little brother, and gazed down. Tracks of a small number of walking elves were just visible in the mud beside the river. He knelt down, and examined them more closely.

"20, maybe 30 elves. Too light footed for men. Carrying something heavy, though. Possibly armoured," he brushed one lightly, mud sticking to his fingers. "Travelling quickly, passed by here within the last day or so. I would suggest fleeing; there's blood mixed in with the tracks, and they didn't stop to collect water. The studding on the boots is familiar, but I couldn't tell you whose; not our men, not any of our brothers' either."

Curufin was scowling as he thought, "where are they headed?"

"Same way we are, at least for this stretch."

"Any idea who?"

Celegorm thought a moment, trying to remember the lay of the land, "People from Dorthonion, maybe? It was certainly burning. If you weren't permitted to enter Doriath, and came from the East of the region, this wouldn't be the quickest route to Nargothrond, but it would be the easiest. If they were, I'd guess at messengers for Finrod. That or elves from one of the minor Sindrian groups you find around these parts, fleeing the trouble."

Curufin nodded slowly, "stay up here. We'll deal with whatever we find when we find them."

An hour later their group came upon the other. There 23 elves sat on some rocks by the side of the path. One elf was laid in the lap of another, who ran fingers through his hair as they both struggled to breathe. Those two seemed to be brothers, with matching features and silver hair. All were injured and decked in burns, parts of their armour discarded and redden cheeks. These elves had obviously stopped when they heard the horses, but had just sat on the side of the pass. If he had to guess, Celegorm would say they had resigned themselves to dieing here, on the borders of Doriath, so close to safety but it barred from them. One, sat beside a tattered banner bearing Angrod's emblem, looked upon the group. He pulled himself to his feet, and bowed.

"Hail, Lords of Aglon," his voice was dead, tired, body only passing through the actions. A moment later he seemed to lose what little sense of self preservation he still held. "I take it your lands got scorched to the ground, too?"

Curufin had opened his mouth to speak, but firmly closed it with a sneer. Before he could do anything too regrettable, Celegorm stepped in.

"Valar-damned balrogs," he shrugged, face pulling into a resigned expression. Suppressed the surge of hate; the enemy was not here.

"Valar-damned balrogs," the spokesman agreed, relaxing slightly.

"Where are you headed?" Curufin managed to get a hold of himself, and ignored Celegorm. That was fine. Celegorm could fight him later.

"Nargothrond. Someone needs to make sure they know."

Curufin nodded to himself, then to Celegorm, then proceeded further back. A touch of their minds later, Celegorm established he'd gone to find these men horses. And to recalculate the rationing.

"We were cut off from Himring," Celegorm leant forward on his horse, keeping the height advantage and staring at the sorry-looking elf. Not that he looked much better. "Headed to Nargothrond ourselves, same reasoning. We've also got a few civilians with us; we tried to evacuate, but the convoy was overrun. Not got a lot of supplies, but we've spare horses. You can ride with us; we won't be stopping until we get there. That's at least another 3 days and nights of hard riding. You can take the horses even if you can't keep up."

The spokesman looked to his group for confirmation. The brothers clasped tighter to one another, their eyes desperate. Others just gazed back at him with exhausted expressions. One found the energy to shrug.

"There's space on the wagon if a couple of you can't ride," he didn't mention there hadn't been space before people started dying.

"Thank you," the seated brother gave a weak smile. "I can't lose him."

Celegorm gave him a weak smile but said nothing - that sentiment was far, far too familiar.

The small band of elves were helping each other up when Curufin reappeared, dragging a group of riderless horses behind him. Celegorm moved over to coo and calm the steeds; they were elven and strong, used to being ridden and pushed hard, but still Curufin had managed to upset them. His attention was busy trying to convince them to take riders, but he was sure he heard an almost hysterical sob of thanks when Curufin offered them a pittance of water and bread; it was evident none of that group had eaten these past few days. A healer also swarmed over the group; four or five were taken back to the wagon, the rest expected to ride. Celegorm had not the inclination to tell them the spaces were only available as some of their own wounded had died.

When he considered the horses calm, he lead them over to where his brother was lording around the group. Most dispersed towards the center of the group, though two remained nearby, sharing nervous looks.

"My Lords?" it was the spokesman who spoke; his armour was too ruined to know if he did outrank the others, or if he was simply the one with the energy to speak.

"What now?" Curufin's voice was bitter.

"We... Thought you should know," a glance was exchanged and the companion nodded; evidently the other was the senior officer. "Our lands have fallen, and our Lords Angrod and Aegnor have been killed. Our Lord Aegnor ordered us to bring news to Finrod as his life was fading. Angrod's men went to inform the High King."

"I see," Curufin masked any emotions, speaking as Celegorm struggled to process. "Join your men in the formation; the terms of our arrangement have not changed. We will ensure Finrod receives your message, one way or another."

"Thank you," they bowed as best they could manage from horseback, before dispersing.

Celegorm exchanged a look with his brother, despair echoing between them. If their cousins had fallen... They had also seen fire to the east; what of their other brothers? Himring would stand to dragon fire, but the Gap would not, the Lake would not, and Maedhros was awfully self-sacrificing even when his brothers were not involved. No doubt he had gone after at least one of them. They could hope the twins were safe in the south, but then the twins roamed far and wide... Any or all of their brothers could be dead or worse, and they might never find out.

But there was nothing to be done, so onward they rode.

* * *

The road to Nargothrond was long and hard. The healers managed to convince their Lords to stop exactly once over the rest of the journey, but no more. Every few hours they would be informed of another death or six, their bodies hurriedly interred by small teams who would then injure their horses catching back up; the elves from Dorthonion were surprisingly hardy, but then Celegorm supposed they had been without healers; their seriously injured would have died quicker. When the horses died, they were just abandoned on the side.

The one piece of light was that Celebrimbor was talking again, showing interest in his surroundings and asking questions about things they passed. He was subdued, but then all the convoy was. Curufin had come to Celegorm and sobbed into his jacket when Celebrimbor had told him he was hungry - both from the joy of hearing his son talk, and despair that there was no food to give him. 

As they made their careful way down a particularly narrow part of the path, sharp drops to either side, Celegorm was leading; his brother was with the wagon, letting the healers see to Celebrimbor whilst he entertained the handful of elflings they had managed to pull alive from the ruined convoy. Curufin may have tried to remain aloof from his men, but it was a long journey and he had ever loved children. Huan sat on the wagon with them, providing his warmth to the injured even as the nights froze. How the wagons were going to get across this part of the path he wasn't sure but, if one thing was true, it was that the Noldor had their moments of engineering ingenuity.

He was guiding one of the younger soldiers and his horse through the gap. The soldier, not responsive enough to give his name but bearing Celegorm's colours, was at most a year over majority, and vaguely Celegorm remembered watching him practice, thinking he had showed promise. The rest of his squad were dead, and he existed in a constant daze. He had taken a serious head injury during their retreat, and whether that, exhaustion or grief was to account for his listless condition was hard to tell. Celegorm suspected that it was a combination of the three, and that, like most of their men, without guidance he would just stop trying and wither away here beside the stream. That if Curufin and Celegorm were not here to push them onwards, if Celebrimbor were not asking them to explain rock formations he passed, if they were not living to protect one another, that their men would fade. At the border of Doriath - who surely could have given them supplies or a safe place to rest for a few days? 

But, no, Doriath's borders remained strictly closed to them all, and for lack of a safe place to stop his men were quite literally falling from their horses in exhaustion; dissociating from pain and grief so hard they could not remember to eat without direction; bleeding to death as bumps in the road knocked the wagon and reopened vicious, internal wounds. Quite frankly, Doriath could go fuck itself; maybe they'd appreciate the long trail of cairns all down their border?

From behind, Celegorm heard a messenger calling that Lord Curufin had ordered the convoy stop a while. He immediately turned, concerned; it was his brother who had ordered them to ride without stopping this whole time, who insisted everyone push on far beyond their limits. He stared, unable to wrap his head fully around the situation. 

And then the horse beside him slipped, pulling the young soldier with it. Moment broken, Celegorm surged forward. With his injured arm he couldn't grab them both; his other wrapped around the arm of the soldier. Still he had his other wrist tangled in the reigns. He was pulled over the edge, arm ripped from its socket, as the horse fell. Celegorm tried to anchor the two of them, still gripping the soldier as he slid towards his death. He panicked for half a second before grabbing his knife with his injured arm, and threw it to slice apart the horse's reins. He gave a soundless scream from the agony in his injuries. Or, at the very least, one drowned out by the screams of the horse as it fell to its death. More carefully, less desperately, he pulled the soldier up from the edge of the cliff; his stitches were already ripped and arm agony. As soon as it was done he collapsed onto the mud and pulled the soldier to his chest, arms protectively encircling his soldier. He was limp in his grasp, struggling to breathe. A quick glance was more than enough to know that both shoulder and elbow of his right arm were dislocated, the muscles around his ribs likely strained too.

Narchon, who had been left in charge of those who had already crossed the path, was at his side a few moments later, breathing heavily from sprinting over. His first offer of assistance was to Celegorm, who waved it off as he bit back agony. Letting go of the soldier, Celegorm awkwardly pulled himself to his feet. His friend dropped to his knees in his place, carefully looking over the still unmoving elf. If he had seemed out of it before, he had at least been responsive; Celegorm was glad for Narchon's presence, for he was neither reassuring nor personally familiar to the injured elf, whilst his captain was an approximation to both. He had also lost his entire squad, and carried horrific wounds. But still he'd offered to take command of a unit of elves. One made of those who had lost his commanders. Celegorm was nothing but glad for this; it gave the last of his favoured soldiers a purpose once again, and put the most psychologically vulnerable soldiers under someone conscientious, trustworthy and sympathetic.

"Feiredir, my lad," Narchon's words had a sharp edge as he tried to get through. "I know it hurts. You need to get up; we need to move on."

"My brother's called a halt," Celegorm's eyes flickered from one soldier to the other. "I'm going to investigate. Have the men this side take a break; eat something, drink, rest. I'm not sure how long we'll have."

"Thank you," Narchon's voice was hoarse as his eyes met Celegorm's. Celegorm had to look away, unable to look at the sheer gratefulness in the eyes of his friend. The most trusted member of either command left alive. He should ask him about a promotion to second...

Celegorm nodded, and turned back to cross the narrow strip. Narchon was more than capable of getting the soldier, Feiredir apparently, across the last part of the narrow strip. To get someone to see to the arm and make him eat. His mind wandered as he carefully made his way back.

"Uncle!"

That was all the warning he had before his arms were full of lanky, terrified elfling.

He bit back a hiss as his sore, injured arm was jolted, but raised the other to stroke Celebrimbor's hair when he shivered. "I'm here, Telpe. What's wrong?"

"Atto, he..." Celebrimbor's eyes flickered nervously, tears welling in the corners. "Tobriel died. The healers tried, but they were so tired..."

Celegorm didn't need that sentence finished; one of the elflings in their convoy was dead, because mistakes were made by exhausted healers, and now Curufin was upset. That, however, didn't quite explain his armful of terrified adolescent. Sad, yes, he had been friends with the girl. But not terrified. "What did your Atto do?"

"He's attacking the Girdle, swearing and cursing at it... I'm... What if they hear and take objection?"

Celegorm petted Celebrimbor again, "they probably don't care enough to pay attention."

He waited for Celebrimbor to have his fill of physical contact before making his way towards his brother; the location was evident from the lack of other elves nearby. They heard him before they saw him, Celebrimbor wincing and pressing into his side as words were screamed into the sky. Words about how those behind in Doriath were child murderers by negligence, how their hatred of their kin was causing mere elflings to die, how they were no better than kinslayers.

Celegorm couldn't disagree and, stepping beside his brother, kicked rocks into the shadowy gloom marking the edge of the Girdle. Curufin stopped, looked at his brother for a moment, then fell to his knees and burst into tears. He hissed at Celegorm, dismissing both him and Celebrimbor sharply as he sobbed. At that, Celegorm kicked some more rocks in for good measure, and set off in another direction to find something non-elven to take his anger out on. Celebrimbor shadowed him close behind, less scared of the familiar anger of his uncle than the tears of his father. When he had calmed a little, Celegorm helped him set a few traps. Between them, they caught rabbits enough to last  to Nargothrond. So long as the weather held. They returned to find Curufin still sobbing on his knees, and so he began a lesson on preparing meats for travel. Celebrimbor was attentive, as he always was to instruction, though if sometimes he lost himself in a concerned gaze at his father, Celegorm wouldn't mention it; he was doing much the same.

Eventually, hours later, Curufin had no more tears left to cry. He stood up, and ordered the men to prepare to continue on. Celebrimbor got up, and moved to try and embrace his father. Celegorm looked at Curufin, but remained seated; his brother's tear-stained face was calm, but a strange darkness had fallen over it. His brother pushed his beloved son aside as he strode to his horse, mounting swiftly and with ease. Celebrimbor looked like he was about to cry, to be treated so by his idol, his father; Celegorm shifted over and wrapped his nephew in a hug.

"We are leaving," Curufin's voice was more level than it should have been, given the crying he had done. His eyes swept cooly over his son, before meeting his brother's. Without even looking he snapped at soldiers, in a new, bitter tone.

Celegorm's heart dropped - Curufin's eyes... The steel in them had hardened, tempered under the fires of their retreat, now quenched with tears and river water. A promise of cool hatred, so unlike Celegorm's fiery own, of swords and blood and calculated destruction of their foe. But he had seen his brother angry before; it was troubling, but nothing special. And it was not the first time he had been too busy for his son, though given the circumstances by far the cruelest. None of this was what made the dread rise in Celegorm's soul, however.

No - that... That was a very, very familiar glint of madness. 

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to have this end with them getting to Nargothrond and seeing Finrod, but Curuin was refusing to play nice and it was already a monster of a piece. There is a very, very small chance I will someday manage to write that scene. In the end I gave up because this ending whilst less hopeful worked as well (if not better), and this was supposed to only be about 4000 words. 
> 
> OCs/may-as-well-be-OCs:  
> Lady Maeadis - Curufin's wife.  
> Narchon Lendaerion - A member of Celegorm's elite scouting unit, and one of his friends.  
> Thalil - one of Curufin's captains.  
> Tobriel - a young girl of approximatly Celebrimbor's age.  
> Feiredir - one of Celegorm's soldiers.  
> Côldaer - the youngest of Curufin's captains. Not that Curufin remembers his rank.


End file.
